


Over the Wall

by StuffedCrabWrites



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Heterochromia au, M/M, Soulmate AU, Violence, cartman dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 19:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17648393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuffedCrabWrites/pseuds/StuffedCrabWrites
Summary: For years people have been separated into districts to keep them content, placated, but most importantly, equal. The resistance fight from underground to change all that. Tweek Tweak had never wanted trouble, but when your soulmate helps run the revolution, it becomes inevitable.





	Over the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have wanted to write this au for years now, time to finally live the dream.

There were 3 things Tweek knew.

1\. His left eye was brown. His right was blue.

2\. He was never allowed in District B because of this.

3\. He was never to take off his hood. Nor was anyone else. On penalty of death.

* * *

     Life in the districts wasn't bad, per se, it just was. Like getting used to waking up when a pet would crawl up to you and get in your face. Like eating soup with a fork because you already fill up on noodles. Like living this way just because it was all you've ever known; you learn not to care. Tweek Tweak was taught not to care.

     Tweek gets up in the morning and dresses in his cowl. He crams wild blonde locks under a dark cape and stashes his freckles underneath his hood. He pulls on a floor-length cape that covers his entire body. On the back is the letter E, followed by 837. Tweek sighs and rubs out any creases on it. “It's just a district assignment code,” he tells himself. “Just to say where I need to be. As long as I stay here. I'm fine. I'm fine.”

     It's very easy to follow the rules. Just don't cause a scene.  
     He walks down the staircase of his home. Sliding a hand among the steel banister connected to the wall, in the sitting room he can hear his parents arguing again, about what he never knows; but parents aren’t supposed to get along. They’re only meant to live together for the sake of a kid. He ignores his parents squabble and b-lines for the bathroom to the right; fetching a small jar from the medicine cabinet, he anxiously slides past where a small mug has been shattered on the floor and breathes a shaky breath.

     Thank god for mandatory morning classes.  
     He steps outside and heads to school. The brick walls that surround District E watch with menace as Tweek fidgets his hands beneath his sleeves. Walls don't watch. He's fine. The white lines of wear show on the peppered blocks like arrows.

     He hears a rustle in the trees just beyond the perimeter and jerks his head to watch some leaves gently careen to the dying grass below. “Just a bird,” Tweek breathes as he smacks straight into a lamp post. His head seizes back and ears ring as he adjusts from the strike. The rustling starts again only for a moment, but he ignores it in favor of the boy jogging his way.

     Butters Stotch was, in not so many words, safe. He kept his head to the ground and his voice low, and that was exactly how he stayed safe; of the people Tweek knew, he definitely liked Butters the most because he was boring. He took the same route to school, ate the same lunch, and had the same greeting: ‘Hey guys how’s it going?’

     “Hey Tweek are you, okay fella? I saw you get hit.” Butters says, burlap bag jostling against his back as he helps his friend up.

     Ok so maybe this time was an exception.

     “Agh, yeah, I'm fine. I just- I thought I saw something. I can't be too careful, and Cartman is always watching. Always. Always Butters, always.” Tweek starts to shake his friend by the arms as his hair begins to poke from under the hood. He rubs his eyes and adjusts his cowl again as the speaker attached to the lamp post crackles to life.

     “YOUR LEADER IS NOT WATCHING YOU. DON’T BE RIDICULOUS. ALSO TWEEK TWEAK, YOU MUST COMPLY WITH DISTRICT REGULATIONS... COVERINGS MUST REMAIN OVER THE EYES AT ALL TIMES.”

     Tweek cracks his knuckles and fidgets, making sure his eyes are fully masked. No blue. No brown. No trouble. “Yes, sir.”

     “THE TIME IS 8:37 AM, YOUR HISTORY CLASS STARTS IN 8 MINUTES, DO NOT FORGET TO BE THANKFUL TO OUR LEADER FOR MAKING US EQUAL. OUR LEADER WHO IS NOT WATCHING YOU RIGHT NOW.”

     “Yes sir,” Tweek says again as trained, this time in unison with Butters who ushers them off to the small grey building classes are held in. Dusty dirt roads lead to a small complex, trailer-sized units lined up neatly. Other people are lined up outside them, waiting patiently to enter. Tweek and Butters both step into line and Tweek glances ahead.

     He scratches three lines into his skin.

     His eyes hurt.

     The heavy steel doors ding when they enter, and when it comes to be their turn, the small light above the door flashes green and speaks in a clear female voice.

     “EIGHT-THREE-SEVEN. IN ATTENDANCE. TWEEK TWEAK.”

     “EIGHT-SIX-SIX IN ATTENDANCE. BUTTERS STOTCH.”

     They step into the small area inside one after the other, making their way past banners in brown and gold, inscribing such inspiring phrases like “‘Have you thanked your leader today?’, ’He’s keeping you safe’, and ‘the rules are for your well-being.’” Butters and Tweek approach the split to their rooms from a small gaudy stone statue of their leader. He’s the only one allowed to be without coverings at any time. The statue depicts him as a tall man with the shoulder-to-torso ratio of an equilateral triangle and features so chiseled they make him look like a cardboard box. It’s depicted holding the world in his fist. “Eric Cartman is a God sent to help you” marks the dusty plaque that nobody bothers to read.

     “Um-” Tweek starts, “do you really think he looks like this? I heard from my aunt that he was younger before she died.”

     His friend pauses to consider the piece of work as if deciding something in his head and considering it not worth it. “Probably”, his voice sounds unsure of something as he turns his head sideways. “We haven’t been taught otherwise.”

     Tweek wishes he could read his expression, but other than a small grimace there’s nothing to read. “I guess. I’ll see you after class.”

 

 

     The teachers drone on about their history, the same start to every class, in the same way, so monotonous and repetitive Tweek could recite it by heart despite never caring about it. The rest of the day goes by uneventfully. He learns about science he doesn’t understand and theories of people long dead. He doodles in the margins of his notebook, sharp lines, and angles making up pretend faces. People without their masks.

     Hours pass by unhindered, a whole day of white noise shoved around by gray figures not speaking to him, he doesn't notice, nor does he care. Eventually, someone catches onto his lack of attention

     “Mr. Tweak, what do you have back there?” The teacher says, tired wrinkles around her mouth pulling at a broken frown, she moves from her desk.

     Tweek then proceeds to eat the paper. It jabs into the roof of his mouth where he couldn’t soften the edges. The graphite is gritty and bitter and he wants to spit it out.

     The teacher sighs. “You’re almost an adult son, please don’t do that. Just-throw it away.” as she returns to her desk, continuing a reading on the last Ruler of the realm, a nasty man who would regularly be called ‘Lord of Darkness’ for his explosive anger outbursts and short temper; while he was very strict, he was largely regarded as ‘The Lonely Boy’ instead. Never finding a pair to the pale diamond eyes to match his obsidian. One day he disappeared, and Cartman took the rule.

     He does as told, removing the paper with disgust and tosses it in the garbage, the pencil faces of his art smeared into frowns from saliva. He retreats to his desk and re-opens his book.

     Tweek coughs and rubs the creases he created smooth, he scribbles the notes in the area of the paper that hadn’t been torn in a hurry. His eyes flutter under his hood involuntarily, he scratches the tip of his pencil across the light of his hand once and he kicks his legs gently under his seat.

     Some time goes by before his attention is caught again, a click on the window and a bell going off, signifying the end of the workday. The doors unlock and students pile out. Tweek's shoes click against the hard tile as he passes the statue and posters again, Butters isn't here yet, so he stares at the wall. A couple people push past him and bump his bag. A minute passes. Then two. Three. Tweek decides to wait outside after being crashed into a dozen times. 

     He meets his friend again outside the door, evidently Butters had been waiting there instead of the statue. He waves as a smile plasters over his face. They leave together and Butters skips out, looking in a much better mood than earlier.

     Tweek doesn’t pry. He’s glad his friend is happy, and as long as there's no trouble, there's no fuss.  
  
     He's safe.   
  
     They walk in silence for a bit before Butters looks up and holds his arm out in front of Tweek.

     Two voices are heard above the wind, neither of them kind. The taller of the two shouts in the face of a girl curled against the pavement.

     “Don’t you ever talk, you ditz?”

     “You know she doesn’t, she’s a fuck up just like her brother and just won’t admit it.” The shorter responds. “Didn’t your flake brother ever tell you those dreams are stupid?” Their insults spit from their mouths as Tweek and Butters round the corner, the girl’s cowl has been forcefully removed revealing silky red hair and high cheekbones. She’s got scratches on her forehead and a quickly bruising nose. She looks to the ground and anger washes across her face.

     “Say something bitch! Fight back!” The leader screams at her, grabbing her ginger hair and holding her body like a bag of groceries too full, he attempts to slam her skull on the brick wall again, but she moves her already worn hands behind her head for safety.

     Tweek has seen enough.

     “I think you’d better think about what you’re asking for you-fuck-, fucking cunt.” Tweek speaks up before they notice, too busy harassing a child who couldn’t be older than 8 to realize they’ve had company. Tweek balls his hands and decks the tallest of the assholes in the back. He doubles over for a second before regaining his composure and swivels to meet his opponent. Butters takes the opportunity to run over to the girl, helping her stand and checking her hands. The second boy puts his back to his taller leader and swings at Butters, who ducks under and headbutts the lackey in the stomach. The lackey coughs and crashes backward into his partner who rolls forward into Tweek’s already upcoming knee to his jaw. They both hit the ground with a thud and take a minute to stand up, but as soon as they’re standing Butters takes the leader by the arm and twists his shoulder until tears of pain drain out from under his mask. The one on the ground bares his teeth, brown curls disheveling and escaping their dark hood prison. One brown eye pokes out from where his face is shoved against the dirt. He panics as soon as he can see unhindered and shuts his eyes tight, rolling out from Butters’s grasp and cramming his features back behind the screen, where people can’t see his face.

     “You won’t see the last of us.” He cries, voice trembling as his friend coughs out dust. As they run off the last thing Tweek can hear is: “Bro why did you just stand there, I was getting my ass kicked!”

     “Sorry bro I got scared. We’ve only beaten up babies before.”

     _“Oh my god.”_

     The girl they were fighting rubs her face, a line of brown following where she smeared it under her left cheek. Her eyes are puffy and red - clearly, she’d been crying from the situation. She makes no move to thank either of them, instead just nodding and covering up her hair and eyes.

     Left eye green. Right eye blue.

     “The name’s Tricia. Bye.” She turns away from them without another word, walking off with her head down, nursing a broken nose.

     Butters twists his sleeves and breaths out unsteadily. “Gosh I hope she’s okay, we’re really lucky there isn’t a camera here. It’s probably why those meanies picked here to bully her.”

     “Nn- Right.” Tweek bounces his hands and his head bobs. Butters looks at him, still twisting one sleeve.

     "Gosh, are you ok? You’ve had like, three seizures today bud. And just throwing you into the fight, oh gosh that’s no good, I’m sorry.”

     “I’m fine, don’t baby me. I punched first anyway. My head hurts but I’m fine. I’m gonna head home. I need to clean up.”

     “Well okay… be careful.”

     “Thanks, Butters.”

     The walk home is rough, to say the least. Is head is spinning and he can’t tell if it’s because of the fight or another cluster of tics. Halfway down he stops near the same red lock fence from the morning. He puts his back against the wall and lets his hand rest over the familiar white-carved arrow.

     The familiar white-carved arrow.

     _The familiar…_

     God dammit where’s the arrow.

     Tweek turns his head in frustration to see the arrow two inches to the right of where he remembered. He grumbles and moves an inch to meet it, moving just enough to see someone not much older than himself high up in a tree, dark enough to miss if you weren’t in exactly the right spot.

     “Um, what the hell are you doing up there?”

     No response, but the shadow grows closer as he jumps down, leaves shaking off delicate nearby branches until he’s only feet away.

     The first thing Tweek notices is his odd clothes, a baggy jumpsuit with a brown eye around the collarbone. Pouches around armbands place on both biceps finish out the top, while light boots with worn buckles haphazardly cuff the excess fabric from the legs from spilling out. A small hood does nearly nothing to hide his face, just barely tugged over his head.

     The mystery guy looks at him with a cursory glance, flat black hair pulled behind his ears, a soft, square jawline bring the focus to uninterested lidded eyes.

     Left eye blue. Tweek’s blue. Right eye brown. Tweek’s brown.

     And fuck he’s right there.

     No mask.

     No fence.

     A small “fuck.” comes from his lips in a gravelly voice.

     And then he runs.

**Author's Note:**

> Tweek's adhd and epilepsy is based off my own experiences with living with it.


End file.
